The Carousel
By Zachary Schomburg
I’m in a carousel.
The kind that spins
people to the wall.
There is a woman
and a man and a man
inside of it too,
and a man operating it.
Everybody I love is
looking down at me,
laughing. When I die,
I’ll die alone.
I know that much,
held down by my
own shadow, wanting
to touch the woman,
the man, the man,
across the curvature.
I won’t be able to even
look. I’m on a train.
I’m a tiny spider.
A tiny star.
Or a giant spider.
When everything stops,
I’ll open the only door
to the carousel and
it’ll be the wrong one
I’ve forgotten entering.
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Tuesday was another uneventful day that started with me cleaning out some dresser drawers that hadn't been opened in years, where I found kippahs from every wedding and Bar Mitzvah we ever attended, pantyhose that I wore to all those events that now have useless elastic, and a bunch of ancient keychains, pocket mirrors, and movie ticket stubs from college. We had some more craigslist and freecycling pickups, and we took a walk in the park before eating the leftover Ethiopian food from this weekend.
My Voyager group watched "Dark Frontier" which we didn't realize until we started didn't have a convenient break between parts one and two, so it was the full movie-length episode, which was fun. Then Paul and I watched This Is Where I Leave You, which has a fantastic cast with great chemistry and a sometimes great script though sometimes over the top (postmortem family comedies are always strange and everything Jewish is played for a joke). Some waterside views from Queen Anne in Seattle:
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